Broken Beauty (6 page)

My journal entries make me laugh. Is this how they’re supposed to be written? Maybe it doesn’t matter, because no one will read them anyway. I put the journal in the desk and get ready for bed.

I’m still thinking about her nails when I drift to sleep in the closet. As odd as it sounds, I’m looking forward to writing in my journal. I’ll try to do it daily, but we’ll see.

Tuesday, August 27
^th

Dear Diary,

Mama hasn’t come home, and Daddy is still too busy for me. They make me so mad! Even Chris talks to me more than they do and of course, Dr. Thompkins, who is driving me crazy. Feelings … feeling … feelings. Ari comes to visit every day. I love her!

Still can’t sleep through the night. Been taking lots of naps. The Joan of Arc supporters are outside the gate. I thought they were strange at first, but I kind of like seeing them now. They’re taking care of me or guarding me or something.

I was putting on makeup this morning and noticed something weird. All my bruises are gone, and I look … normal. But even without the bruises, I’m not me yet.

I hate that feeling. I hate that I jump whenever I hear a door close and look under the bed several times after dark to make sure they aren’t there. I know they aren’t, but I can’t stop the fear.

My phone vibrates, and a message from Chris pops up on my screen.

I’m sending the car. We have an appointment. Be ready in 15.

I roll my eyes at the message. I don’t want to go out, and it takes a lot more than fifteen minutes to get ready. Whatever this appointment is, I’m not going to go looking as badly as I feel.

I put away my journal then wash the make-up off my face and redo it and my hair. The bruises may be gone, but I can’t help double checking to make sure they don’t suddenly reappear, like the dreams I keep hoping will go away for good. I take more care than I ever did before getting dressed. My first choice is a v-neck sweater.

As soon as I put it on, I take it off. I feel … dirty showing off my chest. Daddy always says a woman who dresses without respect for herself will end up in trouble. I know now that he’s right. I stare at myself for a long moment, wishing I’d never bought or worn that dress. Wishing I’d never gone to the party. Wishing I could just wear what I want without feeling so bad.

“Ms. Mia, the car is here for you,” Paul, the butler, calls through my door.

“I’m almost ready,” I reply.

It takes me another ten minutes to figure out what to wear. I still don’t feel comfortable when I emerge from one of my closets in designer jeans, booties and a loose, light, long-sleeve sweater, the kind suited more for fall evenings than the balmy days at the end of summer. I slip on earrings, give myself a once over and leave my safe place.

The house is quiet as I trot down the stairs and out the front door. I’m all alone in the world, except for one of Daddy’s chauffeurs, who waits by the open door. I get in and pull my phone free, ready to call for help if something bad happens. The windows are tinted, but I still feel exposed. I pull my knees to my chest and watch as we roll slowly toward the front gate.

The supporters part, and I gawk at the signs as we pass.

We love you Mia!

Death penalty for rape!

Joan of Arc.
This one had a picture of my battered face on it and an X drawn through a picture of some kind of pill. I’m not sure what this one means, unless they want to outlaw Rufis. It’s strange to see people in front of my house with positive messages. No one eggs the car or screams at us as we coast through the crowd. I twist to watch them out the rear window, smiling at the idea that there are people out there who don’t hate me for my Daddy’s politics. These people think I’m brave.

My smile fades. They’re totally wrong about me. I stare out the window, lost in my thoughts, until the car slows in front of a large building. I read the sign and freeze.

“I’m going to court?” I ask the driver.

“I’m not sure, Miss. Either there or the neighboring police station.”

I hadn’t noticed the police station next door as I glance in that direction. My first thought is that I’m not dressed for court. My second, that I’m about to face Robert Connor. I start sweating. My hands shake, and I start to panic. I don’t get out. Chris appears from the doors at the top of the stairs and trots down to me, opening the car door.

“I don’t want to do this, Chris!” I say, inching away.

“You have to give them a statement about the fake ID.”

I blink. I’d forgotten about the ID.

“That’s it?” I ask him.

“Yes.”

I blow out a breath and climb out of the car. He has his game face on. I can’t read him. I have no idea if he’s lying. Chris starts back into the building. I follow, arms crossed. We enter, and he leads me through quiet hallways lined with offices and conference rooms into a fancier part of the building. The offices get bigger, the hallway wider. My boots click on the marble floors.

Finally, Chris enters a room, but I hesitate. The room is crowded. There’s a judge in black robes at the head of the small, wooden table, a police officer with tons of stripes and medals, and a few other men and women in suits. I recognize two members of Chris’ team.

They all stare at me. I want to run. Chris motions to the fluffy chair beside him, but I remain standing.

“The police would like to charge you for possession of a fraudulent ID and also identity theft. Apparently, the ID you used had belonged to a woman named Julie Smith, and was stolen,” Chris tells me.

I stare at him.

“Due to the circumstances surrounding the events of that night, the Office of the District Attorney and your attorney have come to an arrangement,” the judge says. He has a much kinder smile than I expect.

“Ms. Abbott-Renou, I’m the DA, Eric Tenet,” says another one of the men in suits. “You will be booked, processed, charged, and released. While you are in police custody, you will provide us all the details of where you got your ID, down to sketches, if deemed appropriate. Afterwards, the plea deal your attorney has agreed to will require you to attend counseling for alcohol and do a hundred hours of community service.”

“Your records will be sealed, since you’re a minor,” the judge adds.

Their words make me feel sick.

“In exchange, the DA has agreed to dismiss the felony charges of ID theft and to drop the possession of stolen material to a misdemeanor,” Chris says. “And, they will keep this all out of the papers.”

His last sentence rings the loudest in my thoughts. I don’t understand much aside from the fact they’re hushing it up. Another move by Daddy or Shea. Anger replaces my nausea.

“You won’t be cuffed, but you’ll have to be escorted to the station adjacent to the courthouse. You’ll be home by dinner time,” the judge says, giving a stern look at the DA and the police officer with all the junk on his uniform.

“As long as Ms. Abbott-Renou is forthcoming,” the DA replies.

“Do you understand that?” the judge asks me.

“Yes,” I say.

“Do you understand if you don’t complete your community service or alcohol counseling, you will be put in juvenile detention?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Does my attorney have to come with me?”

“If you would like him to, he can.”

“I would like him
not
to,” I say clearly.

“Mia –” Chris starts.

“Thanks for keeping it out of the papers,” I cut him off. “Tell Daddy I’ll be home for dinner.” I stand and cross my arms. “I’m ready.”

Chris won’t make a scene; this much I know. The DA is looking at him curiously, as if uncertain how my uncle will respond. Chris nods to him. They are all quiet for a moment. It’s their turn to stare at me. The judge is the first to react.

“I will note that the defendant declines the presence of her attorney,” he says. “Ms. Abbott-Renou, please go with Captain Yeager and DA Tenet.”

So, I’m getting arrested. I hate my life.

The two men stand. I join them at the door and follow them into the hallway. I’m on a death march, but I’d rather be on a death march alone than let one of
Chris’ team members g
o with me. The two men get into an elevator, and I’m surprised who else is already in the elevator.

“Hey,” Dom says. He’s taller and beefier than I remember. Then again, I can’t remember much about him, except his accent and eyes. He’s far younger than the other two men in the elevator. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze is warm. I feel like I’m running into an old friend.

“Hey,” I say, relaxing. “How’s Kiesha?”

“She’s good. Real good,” Dom says. “How you doin’?”

I look at the grim DA and unsmiling Captain then shrug. Dom tries not to smile and clears his throat.

“We asked Dom to be here. Kiesha is on vacation,” the DA says at last. “We wanted to try to ease some of the stress this might cause.”

My eyes go to my feet. I never thought I’d be treated better by people charging me with a crime than by
Daddy’s lackeys.

“We didn’t expect you to dismiss
your counsel,” the DA adds. “If at any time, you want him here, we will call him.”

“I understand,” I say.

When the elevator stops I walk ahead of Dom, but then stop to wait for him, feeling safer with him around than anyone else.

Dom is a guardian angel, and not just for me. I never thought twice about police before I met Dom and Kiesha. It’s strange to think there are people out there that are the complete opposite of my family, people who want to help others and not just themselves.

We walk past an area teeming with police officers, past a thick door and into a waiting room with benches. There are two police officers at two computers. As we get closer, I can see the black pads for fingerprints.

“Ms. Abbott-Renou, the Captain and I will leave you here. You’ll be booked then escorted to an interview room.”

“Dom will stay with me?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I take a deep breath and nod. The two older men leave, and Dom sits on the bench.

“Full name,” the booking officer says, staring at the computer.

“Mia Elizabeth Abbott-Renou,” I reply.

“That’s quite a mouthful,” the officer says.

“My grandpa was a Yank who married into politics. Mama says we hyphenated, so no one would forget Grandpa’s money or Grandma’s family’s political pull,” I explain.

“Take you long to learn to spell it?”

I don’t realize she’s telling a joke until she smiles.

“Hey, hero!” someone calls cheerfully, walking into the booking area. “Need your autograph.” The lanky cop walks up to Dom, who grins. He signs some paperwork.

“You’re even prettier than the pictures in the newspaper,” the booking agent tells me. “My son says you look like a Disney princess.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Relax,” she says, taking my hand.

I look down to see my hands are shaking. I will them to be still, but they won’t obey. She grips them securely and inks then rolls my fingertips one by one across a small screen. I watch as they pop up on the computer screen over her shoulder.

Dom and the other officer are joking back and forth, their easy rapport like nothing I’ve seen before, outside of Ari and me. As long as I can see him, I don’t feel like panicking and running for the car, screaming. Because that thought is in the back of my mind, along with the one that’s waiting for Robert Connor to appear suddenly. I’ve been outside my house once since coming home for a check-up with the doctor.

The booking officer takes my pictures with a digital camera then types into the computer. I watch her, reading my file over her shoulder. She has a lot of pictures of me, many from the hospital.

I look at Dom, who’s watching from his seat on the bench. He pats the spot beside him. I sit down.

“Watta?” he asks.

“What?”

“Water?” he repeats slowly.

I laugh. “Your accent.”

“Brooklyn taxi driver?” he asks and shakes his head. “I’m from Jersey.” He rubs the top of his buzz cut. His smile is slightly crooked, his olive skin and dark eyebrows and hair indicating his Mediterranean background. He looks Italian or Greek with dimples in his cheeks that only appear when he smiles. He’s so low-key, unlike the high-strung interns about his age that dart around my father’s office
s like they’re always late.

I like talking to Dom. He’s always had a calming effect on me, and I’ve felt safe around him since he found me in the garden. He even smells good, like earthy cologne and shower gel.

“I don’t know the difference,” I sa
y. “What’re you doing in DC?”

“My mom moved here a couple of years ago to be near Johns Hopkins. We kids followed. One of my sisters works at a woman’s shelter in town and another is a nurse. My big brother is a cop like me and the youngest is in high school,” he explains. “Serving the community runs in our family. Dad was a cop killed in the line of duty in New York City.”

I’m not sure what to think. I’m accustomed to not trusting anyone, because Daddy always says people will use me to get to him. Or put me in the papers to humiliate him or the family. I don’t know what to say to Dom’s honest answers. I haven’t had a real conversation with a stranger – other than Dr. Thompkins – in years.

“We’re finished, Dom,” the booking officer says.

“Alright. Thanks, Kelly.” Dom stands. He offers me a hand and pulls me up. “You need anything to drink or eat?”

“No,” I say. “I’m just nervous about … this.” I wave my hand around. “I’ve never been in trouble before.”

“It’s been handled,” he assures me. “Your attorney did good.”

I don’t doubt it. Daddy wouldn’t keep Chris around, if Chris wasn’t the best.

“We’re going to an interview room,” Dom says. “The DA is gonna talk to you for a bit.”

“Okay,” I say. I trail him down the hall, taking in his frame. He’s bigger than Robert Connor-the-quarterback. Dom is built like a linebacker. I can see him sacking Connor in a football game, and the image makes me happy.

The DA is waiting for me in a room very unlike the one we were in. This one has all white walls, except for one with a mirror that I assume is a two-way mirror after watching all those cop shows on TV. There are four chairs around a metal table. The DA has a few files piled up on one side of him and is writing in his ledger on top of another.

“Come in, Ms. Abbott-Renou. Do you need anything to drink?” he asks, glancing up.

“No, thank you,” I say. I sit down, hands shaking again. I sit on them.

Dom pulls a chair into the corner and sits.

DA Tenet places a picture of the ID in front of me. “If at any time, you want your attorney, tell me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Tell me about this,” he says and taps the photo.

“There’s a guy from school who … specializes in getting us IDs,” I start. “Whenever we need one, we ask him. We pay him five thousand for an ID.”

“Five thousand?” the DA looks at me. “How do you get your hands on five thousand?”

“I’ve got two trust funds, one from Daddy I can’t touch until I’m twenty one, and one from my maternal grandfather. I was allowed to take money when I turned sixteen.” I shrug. “So I do.”

“No parental oversight?”

“I have shitty parents,” I tell him. “I’ve been taking care of myself since my grandpa died when I was eleven. Daddy’s team keeps me from messing up while he’s doing what he does and mom is drinking. When I need money, I take it out of my fund.”

The DA leans back. He’s about Chris’ age and has the same game face. I can’t read him, but I don’t care. I just have to tell them what I know, and then I get to go home.

“What’s the kid’s name you get the IDs from?” he asks.

“Casey King.”

“You have his address or phone number?”

I nod. He slides me the pad of paper.

“Is it one of the numbers under outgoing calls we pulled off your cell phone?” he asks.

“I thought it went into the fountain,” I say, focusing on writing.

“It did. We were able to pull everything off the memory card, though.”

“Then yeah, his number is in there.”

“Where does he get his IDs?”

“I don’t know. I never asked him.” I shrug again. “I didn’t know he stole them. I thought he made them.”

“He did a professional job putting your photo on. Did you ever see his equipment?”

“Nope,” I reply. “We’d just call him and tell him we needed one. Gave him the money and he’d bring it to school or a café.”

“If we can’t find Casey, can you provide a description?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Thank you.” The DA closes the file in front of him and sets his pen down. He gazes at me for a moment. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Are you in any sort of therapy? Seeing doctors?”

“I have a shrink, yes.” My face feels hot at admitting it, and I roll my eyes. “The doctor cleared me a couple weeks ago. Said I was healing fast. No long term damage from the head wounds. My family would probably say my skull is too thick.”

He gives a trace of a smile. He’s in his mid-40s with blue eyes and hair that’s brown streaked with gray. He’s been calm and quiet the whole time, but his eyes are like Chris’s: sharp and cool.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says. “Do you want something to drink?” he asks again.

He’s still studying me. I start to feel uncomfortable.

“Uh, no,” I say. “Is that all you wanted to ask me?”

“There is something else.”

I’m starting to get edgy, and his too-calm tone reminds me of when Shea is about to tell Mom or Daddy some bad news. I usually disappear when I hear that tone.

“You forgot to sign your statement about what happened the night you were raped,” the DA says, pulling papers free from one of the file folders. I recognize my handwriting covering the fronts and backs of the papers.

“Okay,” I say.

“These read like a lawyer wrote them,” he says, skimming over them.

“Chris said it needed to be as detailed as possible,” I reply.

“Did Chris tell you about the other girls?” He keeps the statement on top of the folder in front of him.

“What other girls?”

“Dom, grab us some water.” The way he says it makes me think I won’t be leaving soon.

Dom leaves. The whole feel of the room changes. I’m not safe anymore. My hands shake worse. I stretch across the table to grab the damn form and sign it. The DA plants his hand on it.

“Look, I’ll sign it. I really want to go home now,” I say, anxiously.

“We’ll get to that,” he says. “First, I want to show you something that’s probably going to earn me a lawsuit once you tell your lawyer.”

I sigh. I’m not to the point yet where I want Chris anywhere near me, but I’m getting there fast.

“Meet Jessica, Brittney, and Lana.” As he speaks each name, he sets a new picture in front of me.

I stare at them then shove myself away from the table and stand, turning away. The pictures look like those of me in the hospital: young women beaten and bleeding.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

“There are more.” He’s calm. “Kendra, LeAnn, Ella.”

I don’t dare look. I’m feeling nauseous again.

“They all have something in common with you.”

My breathing is coming faster. I lean against the wall.

“When you were taken to the hospital, the officers took pictures and samples of your blood and the semen of your assailants,” the DA continues. “This is called a rape kit. The samples from the rape kit they did on you match those of these six women.”

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“That means the two men who hurt you, hurt these women, too.”

Dom returns. He hands me a bottle of water and sets one down in front of the DA. I watch as he sits in the corner again.

“Does that mean anything to you?” the DA asks.

“No,” I reply.

“I moved the pictures.
Sit down.”

I risk a peek at the table. It’s clear. I hes
itate then sit, my whole body shaking. The statement is still sitting on his folder.

“There is a difference between them and you,” the DA continues. “You are the only one who can remember your attackers. You are the only one who fought your attackers. We pulled the DNA from your fingernails, so we know you weren’t unconscious when they hurt you. None of these girls can remember anything about the nights they were raped.”

“They’re lucky,” I say. “I wish I could say the same.”

“I repeat,” the DA says more slowly. “You’re the only one of seven victims over the past few weeks who can remember. All of you had the same two attackers.”

“So, what?”

“You’re the only one who can identify who did this.”

My breath catches, and suddenly I understand.

“We pulled the pictures from your phone from that night. You took a picture before you were hurt. It’s time-stamped that night, around midnight.”

“You said … you just want me to sign that,” I say, pointing. “Give it to me, and I will.”

“If you sign it and you’re keeping information, you can be charged with perjury. Did Chris explain that to you?”

I shake my head.

“It means, if you know who hurt you and you lie on this form, you can go to jail.”

“I’m so sick of being the one who gets punished. I’m the one who was attacked,” I almost shout at him.

“Excuse me.” The DA looks down at his cell phone then stands. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Dom.”

The two exchange a look. The DA leaves, and Dom takes his seat as the door closes.

“Hey,” Dom says in the husky voice that calms my frazzled nerves.

“Hey.”

His dark eyes drop to the statement, and I feel like my heart is breaking. My protector, the man my grandfather sent to watch over me, is about to betray me like everyone else in my life does.

“Not you, too, Dom,” I whisper, saddened.

“You can stop them, Mia,” he replies. “The same guys who hurt you hurt all these girls. They’ll do it again.”

“I can’t do anything, Dom.”

“You gave me a name.”

“I can’t remember.” I can’t look at him, either.